


Monaco

by biggayidiot



Series: Passport [1]
Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Rocketman (2019) RPF
Genre: Barebacking, Choking, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Rimming, Unsafe Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Wet & Messy, gentle dom taron, let the man bottom!, pillow princess richard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-07 07:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19205185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biggayidiot/pseuds/biggayidiot
Summary: “You’re not clingy,” Taron says, firm and reassuring. His hands smooth down Richard’s shoulders and Richard begins to relax, incrementally. “I like that you need it so bad.” He takes Richard’s face in his hands, kisses his cheek, his jaw, his lips, until Richard whimpers a bit, undignified and needy. “What do you want?” Taron asks, breaking the kiss. “Tell me, it's yours.”“I hate...saying it, I hate talking, you know that, T,” Richard says, tipping his head back, baring his neck for Taron. Taron bites down. Richard sighs.“That’s the fun part,” Taron says. “For me, anyway.”





	Monaco

**Author's Note:**

> Long time lurker, first time poster!
> 
> This fic inspired by: Richard Madden describing himself as anxious and shy in his Actors on Actors interview, Taron Egerton's goofy ass on Instagram (and IRL frankly), literally just all of the Rocketman press tour, Richard's Venus being in Leo (#needy), my roommate's boss saying that Richard couldn't've been at L.A. Pride because he saw him at the Grand Prix that weekend lmfao, Uber Helicopter being a verifiably real thing that I had to use to book an agent a trip to Marseilles, gentle dom Taron, pillow princess Richard, [this photo of Richard at Cannes looking like a pampered lil brat](https://media.wmagazine.com/photos/5cdee7cdc61fc0ca227a9fb9/2:1/w_790,c_limit/59693422_674896409600594_5924405745246663950_n.jpg)  
> etc etc etc etc etc
> 
> The timeline is obviously not 100% correct but hey close enough maybe? Anyway this is mainly an excuse for me to write needy bottom/switch Richard so please enjoy uhhhh 5.3k words of that lol

It’s fucking hot in Monaco. Richard is sat in the middle of a crowd of wealthy Europeans who seem perfectly comfortable in suits and ties, despite the fact that it’s over 30 degrees. The Grand Prix seemed like a fun thing to do after Cannes wrapped up, just a quick trip up the coast to see some fancy cars and day drink, but now Richard is longing for the overly-air conditioned comfort of his hotel room.

Richard still isn’t used to this kind of heat. Shooting _Game of Thrones_ in Northern Ireland, and _Bodyguard_ in London, and even _Rocketman_ in Berkshire where it didn’t even break 23 in the summer hasn’t exactly prepared him for having to wear a sport coat in the beating sun in the south of France. So he sweats. Watches formula one cars whiz by. Takes a selfie with a woman who approaches him. Kills the rest of a glass of champagne courtesy of the VIP box. Sweats some more and thinks about how shiny he must look in that photo.

One of his agents is there schmoozing, and Richard’s said hello to some other hangers-on from Cannes, but he’s mostly alone. And he doesn’t know French. Not knowing anyone, not knowing how to strike up a conversation makes him nervous. He’s fine at a premiere or an awards luncheon, when he knows nearly everyone in the crowd and has a couple close friends he can always return to at the bar, but something like this, where he’s just expected to fuck around with a glass of champagne in one hand, ignites a dry-mouthed anxiety he can’t shake. And he’s still fucking sweating.

Lately, his touchstone has been Taron. When he got tired of joking with the grips and gaffers on set, he’d loop back around to Taron’s trailer. During the _Rocketman_ press junket, when he couldn’t think of anything else to say, he’d just rest his knee against Taron’s crossed leg and watch as he chatted away, saying his name over and over. “Richard” this, “Richard” that. More often than not, one of their expensive hotel rooms on the various stops of their press tour will go unused, long days of Q&As and social media video shoots and red carpets and afterparties turning into long nights of luxuriating in one another’s presence. Richard in Taron’s lap. Taron licking into Richard’s mouth, wet and hungry. Richard face down on the bed, taking three, four of Taron’s fingers, squirming as Taron teases. “Greedy, greedy. Could make you take my whole hand if I felt like it, right, babe?”

A showmance, maybe. A summer fling.

Unfortunately, Taron declined to join Richard at the Grand Prix. If memory served, Richard pitched the idea to Taron during the Rocketman Cannes afterparty to which Taron responded, “Fuck no, mate, I’m spending my one bloody day off ass out in Saint-Tropez.” Richard couldn’t argue with that, as much as he wanted to.

Even though he knows the answer already, Richard takes out his phone and taps out a message.

R: _Odds are you can make it to Monaco in the next 30 min???_

He puts his phone back in his pocket, only to pull it back out again when it vibrates immediately. A message from “Taron Egerton,” his full name spelled out as the contact name. Richard is pretty sure his name in Taron’s phone is just “DICKY.”

T: _no chance_

Taron follows up with an absurd selfie. He’s on the beach, sun-reddened and grinning like a maniac, a huge cocktail dripping condensation down his arm.

T: _saint tropez bruuuuuuuuv_

Richard suppresses a shout of a laugh. He presses down on the image and hits “save.”

R: _Where’s the Elton gap?_

T: _forgot to paint it on this morning_

R: _Shame_

Richard leaves it at that. He doesn’t want to push it, to put on display how much he wishes he were there, or to beg for Taron to come see him. He thinks about texting his assistant stateside to book him a car to drive him down the coast. It would be less than a two hour trip--

T: _whats up with you_  
_prix not grand enough??_

R: _Fucking hot and I don’t know anyone and I’m bored_

Richard opens his camera and takes a covert selfie, looking dismayed with his empty champagne flute. He sends it to Taron.

T: _fucking hot is right_

R: _Boooooo_

T: _seriously you look really good_  
_fancy_  
_sexy_

Richard bites the inside of his cheek. Sweet Taron. Goofy Taron.

R: _Thanks. What are you up to tonight_

T: _this probably_

Another dumb selfie. Taron’s lips wrapped around the straw in his drink, eyebrows raised as high as they can go. Richard saves this one, too.

R: _Dickhead. Let’s get dinner_

T: _how do you figure_

R: _Come up my way, short trip_

Richard holds his breath. Maybe he could send Taron a car. Would that be too much, too weird? Richard supposes that he could just settle for seeing Taron at the London premiere the next night, if Taron doesn’t want to make the trek, but he gets in his head before premieres, too, and is really just hoping that--

T: _yeah why not_  
_dex told me they have uber helicopter here have u heard of that? might try it out_

Richard breathes a sigh of relief.

* * *

“Fucking mental!” Taron exclaims, jerking his head back at the helipad. “Uber fucking Helicopter.”

“Easily amused,” Richard says. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, mate.” And he is: Taron looks like a particularly sexy tourist, short sleeve button down hanging open over a skin-tight undershirt, tight enough for Richard to see the definition of his pecs.

“Thanks. Got some sun, though, might need you to rub me down later,” Taron says.

Richard laughs. “Gladly.” Taron puts an arm around him, innocuous enough except for the possessive grip he gives Richard’s neck. Richard can’t help the smile stretching across his face.

They walk down a palm tree-lined boulevard. Hardly anyone stops and gawks. Richard experiments with taking Taron’s hand in his when they reach a particularly empty stretch of road, and Taron gives his hand a squeeze. Richard squeezes back. They unclasp hands.

“We’ve got London tomorrow night and you still couldn’t let me alone for a day?” Taron says breezily, but Richard knows what he’s playing at. He turns to look at Taron: tops of his cheeks and the curve of his forehead peach-pink from the sun, eyes are crinkled at the sides, smiling a small, private smile. Richard ducks his head.

“I can’t have you both days?” Richard teases. Taron’s grin is blinding.

“Oh, I’ll allow it.”

“I was alone all day not knowing a word of French instead of at the bloody beach, sorry for feeling a little deprived.”

“You can just say you love attention, that you need some doting, Dicky, don’t have to justify it to me,” Taron says, absolute glee in his voice, that wheedling tone that Richard is desperate for.

Richard bumps his shoulder into Taron’s. “Fuck off.” He sneaks another glance at Taron. “I just like it best when it’s from you. I was so lonely all day, got sort of in my head.”

“Well, happy to help.” Taron starts walking backwards before Richard, arms outstretched, dramatic and funny and silly, as always. Richard wants to kiss the shit-eating grin off his face. Maybe he will later. “I mean, it’s Richard Madden’s world and I’m just living in it, babe.” Richard cuffs Taron on the back of the head. Taron slings an arm around Richard’s waist and keeps it there until they arrive at the restaurant.

They enter a chic hotel restaurant, dim and intimate. They sit outdoors, on a pristine patio overlooking the ocean. Taron takes the lead and orders a bottle of rosé in hard-edged, clunky French. Richard, reclined in his seat, collar unbuttoned, chuckles.

“Rosé, mate, I don’t get it.”

“It’s fucking delicious and expensive, is why.” Taron waggles his eyebrows. A frosty bottle of rosé arrives at their table and Taron pours himself a glass. “You don’t have to have any.”

“Oi, I wasn’t saying no.” Richard watches Taron give him a generous pour.

Richard accepts the glass. Taron raises his. “What are we drinking to, then?” Taron asks, eyes glinting.

Richard raises his glass. “Uber Helicopter, maybe,” he suggests.

Taron laughs, hearty and joyful. Richard feels drunk already, eyes fluttering like it’s difficult to take in the sheer brightness of Taron. “Brilliant. To Uber Helicopter. And to lovely, needy Dick Madden.”

“Arsehole.”

They touch glasses and drink.

* * *

Another bottle and a half of expensive rosé later and Richard feels warm and fuzzed-out around the edges, the kind of feeling that relaxes his shoulders and makes him more free with a laugh. The kind of feeling that makes him want to press his face into Taron’s neck and stay there. He feels wanton, head thick with it, like he’d roll over and show his belly if Taron asked.

“Are you staying, then?” Richard asks, feeling bold as a server takes away empty glasses and plates. “Don’t see a bag.”

Taron polishes off the dregs of his rosé. “Yeah. Was just planning on wearing some of your Armani tomorrow anyway.”

“You can, if you want,” Richard says, painfully earnest.

A server brings around the check, and before he can set it on the table, Taron hands him a card. “Just all on this, thanks. Merci.”

“You should have let me pay, T, you literally flew over here,” Richard says, resting his chin on his hand. He absentmindedly rubs a thumb over his lips, a nervous tic, as Taron crosses his arms on the table and leans forward.

“Yeah, but I like spoiling you,” Taron says with an absolutely evil shine in his eyes. Richard goes red. Taron smiles fondly. “Something about you makes me want to do lots of crazy shit.” Taron rubs a warm, broad hand down Richard’s forearm. To anyone else, it may have looked friendly, casual, but the motion makes Richard shiver, burns into his skin.

“Like fly over here when I could’ve called you a bloody car,” Richard says, no bite behind it. He hums when Taron removes his hand.

“Would’ve crawled on hands and knees if I had to.”

“Absolute freak.”

Taron kicks at Richard’s shin underneath the table.

The server is back with Taron’s card and the receipt. He signs with a flourish. “You’re at this hotel, yeah?” he asks Richard. They stand up and start inside.

“Yeah, I’m--” Richard digs in his pocket and pulls out a hotel key. Without thinking, he gives it to Taron, as if to say _please, take charge._ He regrets it as soon as he does it, and makes a move to take the card back. “Sorry, I can hold--”

“You’re fine, love,” Taron says, keeping the card. He smiles easy at Richard. It’s all too easy with him, Richard thinks, and even that makes him a little nervous.

They enter an elevator taking them up to the 15th floor, the only ones inside. When the door shuts, Taron slides a hand across Richard’s lower back. Richard melts into the touch, nuzzling his face against Taron’s neck and inhaling. Salt water. Sweat. Clean, plain deodorant. Sunblock.

“You can always just ask for what you need, f’you’re feeling out of sorts,” Taron murmurs, brushing a hand through Richard’s hair. Richard presses his lips up against Taron’s neck, not a kiss, just breathing the same air and feeling his heartbeat through thin skin.

“A bit embarrassing,” Richard says.

“What is?”

Richard pulls away. His eyes are heavy lidded. That same nervous tic comes back and he swipes a hand over his mouth. Taron snakes his arm out from around Richard’s back and brings a hand up to his neck instead, holding him there.

“Should just be able to give you some time, like you said,” Richard says.

“Not at all, love, I’m just teasing when I say that, you know,” Taron says.

“Yeah,” Richard replies, not entirely convinced, but refusing to pull away from Taron’s touch.

The elevator reaches the 15th floor. The doors slide open. “Which room?” Taron asks.

“1526, on the corner.”

Taron slots the card into the door and shuffles Richard inside. Richard goes straight for the minibar.

“Want a drink, mate?” Richard asks, flushed high on his cheeks, feeling exposed.

“Not really,” Taron says, toeing off his shoes. “Mostly just want to, like, get you naked and have you sit on my face. Something simple like that.”

Richard roots through the fridge as Taron takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “Menace, you are.” He’s skittish. He finds a rocks glass in a nearby cabinet.

“C’mere, what are you doing, Rich? You’re killing me,” Taron asks.

Richard upends a miniature bottle of Armorik into a rocks glass. He turns to face Taron, trying to keep his cool, not fling himself at the other man’s feet. “I just felt quite anxious and alone, all today, and you make me feel not like that, and I’m trying not to ruin it by being clingy,” Richard takes a sip, winces it down. “You know?”

Taron comes up close to Richard, gently, like approaching a cornered animal. His eyes flick down to Richard’s lips, still wet with whiskey. Richard gives a small, disbelieving huff of a laugh, and Taron quiets him with a lush, confident kiss that shakes loose a moan from deep within Richard. Taron pulls back, opens his mouth as if to speak, then decides against it and kisses Richard again. Long, slow. Hand on the back of Richard’s neck, his favorite spot.

“You’re not clingy,” Taron says, firm and reassuring. His hands smooth down Richard’s shoulders and Richard begins to relax, incrementally. “I like that you need it so bad.” He takes Richard’s face in his hands, kisses his cheek, his jaw, his lips, until Richard whimpers a bit, undignified and needy. “What do you want?” Taron asks, breaking the kiss. “Tell me, it’s yours.”

“I hate...saying it, I hate talking, you know that, T,” Richard says, tipping his head back, baring his neck for Taron. Taron bites down. Richard sighs.

“That’s the fun part,” Taron says. “For me, anyway.” He stands upright and, starting at the top, begins to unbutton Richard’s shirt, casually, like he’s doing him a quick little favor. Richard notices Taron taking over for him and warms from the inside out. “I could really take my time and suck you off and keep you on the edge, if you wanted. Maybe spend some time eating you out and having you fuck back on my fingers ‘til I can just slide my cock in, hm?” He pushes the shirt off Richard’s shoulders, drapes it over the back of a nearby chair. Richard brings a hand across his chest, as if he’s scratching an itch on his shoulder, but it’s really out of self-consciousness, still a little shy being laid bare in front of Taron, when it’s not on set at least. “Stop that,” Taron says, batting Richard’s arm away so he can take him all in. “I like looking at you.”

“Pervert,” Richard says. He drops his arm.

Taron marvels. He licks a stripe up the middle of Richard’s broad chest, which makes Richard laugh, then Taron comes up and licks Richard’s neck, too, just for good measure. “So lovely,” he says, right against Richard’s ear as he rubs a thumb over a nipple, feeling it harden for him. He digs his fingernails into the sensitive skin and part of Richard wants to smack Taron’s hand away, but a bigger, more desperate part of him inhales sharply and arches into the touch. He can feel Taron’s toothy smile against his cheek.

Taron drops to his knees, settling on the ground comfortably, where he makes quick work of Richard’s belt. “I could just quit all the foreplay and fuck you without prep, even.” Taron unzips Richard’s fly, shimmies his trousers down his legs. He taps at Richard’s ankle and Richard knows to step out. “You’re really quite good at taking it like that, you like it when it hurts, right?”

“Fuck, Taron,” Richard says. He rests a hand at the back of Taron’s head, scritching his fingers through the short little hairs.

Taron looks up at Richard, standing there in nothing but tight black boxer briefs, half-hard and trying to control his breathing. “I mean, look at you, Richard. How could I say no to anything you asked?” Richard laughs. “Gorgeous.”

Taron gets in close, opens his mouth against Richard’s clothed cock, straining against the fabric in a delicious, thick arc. Richard groans at Taron’s hot breath, can’t help but to grip the back of his head a little harder and grind against him. He feels the wet of Taron’s tongue drag up to the head, angled into the divot of his hip, and suck through the cloth, leaving an obscene wet spot. Richard groans. He moves his hand to his waistband, moves as if to pull off his briefs, but Taron grabs his wrists and stands up instead.

They’re nose to nose, bodies flush against one another. Taron nips at Richard’s jaw. He holds Richard’s wrists tight. “Tell me what you want. I want to give it to you.”

Richard swallows, mouth dry. Taron looks deadly serious, ready to do whatever Richard says. As Taron runs a hand through Richard’s coif, Richard says, “Were you serious, earlier?”

“About what?”

“About, um...” Taron’s hand moves from Richard’s hair to his throat, wraps around it gently. Richard’s eyes flutter shut, mouth falls open. “About me, ah, sitting on your face.”

Taron lights up. “As a fucking heart attack.” He keeps his hand on Richard’s throat, leans in for a kiss. “You want that?”

“I want it,” Richard says, breathy, heady. Taron gives Richard’s throat a proprietary squeeze. Richard can’t help but whine.

“Let’s get these off first, then,” Taron says, fingers skirting the waistband of Richard’s briefs. Richard lets him, watching as Taron almost reverently pulls them down Richard’s legs, stopping to wrap his lips around the head of his cock. He’s almost painfully hard, dripping precum down his shaft. Taron sucks Richard clean. Strokes Richard’s cock base to tip. Lays his cock against his face, licking at the underside.

“Fuck, you can’t...I’m worked up, mate, gonna make me come already,” Richard says, hunching over, both hands gripping Taron’s head.

Taron smooths his hands down Richard’s thighs. “I get distracted, sorry, love.” He stands up and flops onto the bed, outstretching a hand towards Richard.

“You going to get your kit off or what,” Richard says, shuffling over to Taron, intertwining their fingers, straddling Taron’s lap. “Got me stark fucking naked before you even get your shirt off.” Richard clasps his hands behind Taron’s neck and grinds down, feels Taron’s cock through his jeans. Taron’s hands at the small of Richard’s back move lower, cupping his ass, spreading him open.

“It’s kinda hot this way, innit,” Taron says, shrugging off his button down. Richard shoves his hands up under the tight undershirt that remains. “Like you’re my rent boy. And I’m a businessman or something who just has to, like, unbutton my trousers.” Taron laughs at his own analogy.

Richard laughs, too. He playfully grips Taron’s chin, angling his head so he can only look up into Richard’s eyes. Behind the goofy grin, Taron has a look in his eye like he’d bend over backwards for Richard, excited and nervous and hungry, like this isn’t the hundredth time he hasn’t had Richard crowding his space. “Off, all of it,” Richard demands, untangling himself from Taron’s arms.

“Fussy.” Taron strips. He’s hard, dick smacking wet against his stomach when he lies back on the bed. He grips the base of his cock, pumps once or twice. Richard is wide-eyed, salivating, and Taron notices. “Later. Get up here.”

Richard makes his way up Taron’s body, stopping to bite bruises onto his stomach. Taron lets him take his time, hissing when Richard sucks hard enough to leave a mark. Richard then nuzzles his face into Taron’s underarm, laving his tongue on as much skin as he can reach, inhaling deep. He feels dirty, wanting everything about Taron, sweat and smell and skin. “Good boy,” Taron growls, “my good fucking boy. Take what you need.” Richard’s heart skips a beat. _Need_ , the operative word, and he does need.

After a few chaste kisses, Taron props his head up with pillows then runs his hands up Richard’s sides. “Straddle me, hold onto the headboard,” Taron instructs. Richard knees up the bed and lowers himself over Taron’s mouth, then grips the headboard best he can. Taron wraps his arms up around Richard’s taut, coiled thighs and tugs down. “Don’t be shy,” he says, and Richard nearly laughs at the idea of Taron trying to speak from underneath his body, but then Taron licks a dripping, nasty stripe from Richard’s hole to his sac and he nearly cries.

“Oh my god,” Richard says, thighs shaky. Taron does it again, stopping to take one of Richard’s balls in his mouth. Richard’s back arches at the feeling, the warmth, the probing, and he rests his head on his forearms where they’re folded on top of the headboard.

Taron licks at his hole again and moans, sending a seismic wave through Richard’s body. “Hold yourself open,” he hears Taron say in between obscene sucks at his tight entrance. Richard brings a hand back and uses it to spread his ass further open. “Perfect.” Taron pulls Richard’s thighs in closer and uses the broad side of his tongue to wet up his hole and his taint before using his tongue to work inside, to push past the ring of muscle and fuck him gently.

“T,” is all Richard can get out between shuddering moans. “Taron, fuck.” He starts to grind down, not caring about how much weight he’s putting on Taron, clenches and unclenches around Taron’s tongue where it probes deeper inside. He feels wet, starting to get sloppy and open. The thought of Taron working him open to a fucked out mess makes his dick leak onto the pillow.

Richard feels one of Taron’s arms move so his hand is resting right on Richard’s ass, able to stretch to use two fingers to rub at his hole. The flat of Taron’s fingers press and glide over the spit-slick crease, providing an insistent rub that makes Richard ache for that feeling of throat-clenching fullness. “Can you,” Richard starts, gritting his teeth, keening when Taron shoves his tongue in again. “Can you use your fingers?”

Richard feels Taron moan underneath him. He shifts up a little, so Taron can adjust his hand. He feels a finger pressing inside - not uncomfortable, just pressure, and Richard knows he can take more. “Another,” he sighs out, not sure if Taron can even hear him, “please.”

Taron takes Richard’s sac in his mouth and pushes another finger inside. Richard’s dick twitches and he leans back, a little tight but needing to feel the stretch. Taron presses deeper, scissoring his fingers open. Richard hunches over again, face nestled in the crook of his arm, where he bites at the thin skin of his inner elbow to keep from babbling. Taron crooks his fingers experimentally, driving them just a bit deeper. “Yeah,” Richard breathes. “That’s...” Taron pulls off Richard’s balls with a filthy sucking noise, then gets the tip of his tongue up next to the two fingers inside Richard. The fullness, the dripping wet, the interchange of thick fingers and probing tongue - Richard gives the base of his cock a vise grip, lifts his head and says, “Taron, don’t wanna come yet, I don’t--” then uses what remains of his lower body strength to lift himself up off of Taron’s face. Taron cranes his neck, gives Richard one last searing lick, then scoots his way down the bed. He flips himself over and, putting one hand on Richard’s lower back, keeping him up against the headboard, uses his other hand to slide two fingers effortlessly back into Richard’s hole.

“Sloppy,” Taron murmurs. “Greedy hole, you are.” Richard backs up slightly, almost asks for another finger. Taron keeps his fingers inside and speaks soft in Richard’s ear. “What’s next, love, what can I give you?”

Richard turns his head, gives Taron a messy kiss. Tastes himself, kisses Taron deeper. “Want to suck you off, maybe,” Richard says.

Taron rubs a finger over Richard’s lips. “Yeah, really? Not too desperate to have me inside you yet?”

Richard knocks his head against Taron’s. “Wanker.” He gets off the bed and drops to his knees on the floor, waiting.

Taron groans at the sight, gives his dick a few pumps. “Can’t just do shit like that, Richard, fuck.” He stands in front of Richard, splayed out on his knees, and grabs at his hair. “Look at you. Pretty boy.” He taps his cock against Richard’s cheek a few times. Richard lets his eyes flutter shut, then opens his mouth wide enough for Taron to feed his dick inside.

“So pretty,” Taron repeats reverently. He thrusts forward enough for the soft clutch of Richard’s throat to spasm around him, enough to hear Richard’s breath flow hard through his nose. Richard half-opens his eyes, puts his hands on the ground by his knees like he’s bracing for it. Taron thrusts again, still gentle, just deep. Again and again, until Richard pulls off with a cough, eyes watering, mouth rubbed red and raw. He takes Taron’s cock in one hand and presses his face against the thatch of hair at the base, listening to the wet slide of his hand pumping up and down.

“Fuck,” Taron whispers, hands in Richard’s hair. Richard looks back up at him, lips shiny with spit. “Okay?” Taron asks, strokes the side of Richard’s face.

Richard nods. “You can do it harder, if you want,” he offers, accent thick and gravelly. He swallows.

“I can, can I?” says Taron. Richard nods again, smiles a little. Taron resumes a grip on his hair. “Open,” he says, and Richard opens his mouth wide, sticks out his tongue. “Filthy,” Taron says, smacks his cock on Richard’s tongue once, then slides in all the way to the base. Lengthy, hard strokes that bruise the back of Richard’s throat. Richard closes his eyes and takes it, listens to Taron moan and praise and breathe, hard, listens to the embarrassing choking noises coming from his own mouth. When his eyes stutter open again, Taron is looking right at him, brows knitted together with a tender look in his eyes like Richard is truly fucking magic.

“Fuck, oh my god,” Taron says, pulling out of Richard’s mouth. Richard is left with a spit-slick chin, hair wavy and disheveled, and it’s enough to make Taron drop to the floor to wrap him in close and kiss him. There’s no friction, Richard’s lips sliding easy around Taron’s lips and tongue, and Taron can’t help but laugh. “I like you like this, a lot,” he says. Richard is too dazed to retort back, just kisses Taron again.

Taron stands up before Richard, marvels at how hard he is. “Shit, surprised you weren’t rutting against me that whole time, trying to get off.”

Richard follows him up to the bed, where he lies face down, arms wrapped around a pillow, and looks back at Taron. He looks almost innocent. “Yeah, only wanna come if you’re inside me, to be honest,” he says as Taron runs greedy hands from his shoulders to his ass, spreading him open and working in three fingers. Richard buries his face in the pillow and pushes back.

“Well, I’ll just make you get off on my leg some other time then,” Taron says. “Would be a bit of a waste if I didn’t use your hole tonight, hm.” He angles his fingers up, which elicits a full-bodied shudder from Richard, a muffled moan. “That’s good?” Taron asks. “Tell me it’s good, babe, tell me you like that.”

Richard turns his head, takes a deep breath. “I like it, T, fuck.” Taron hits his prostate again. Richard bunches his hands in the sheets. “Feel full.”

Taron hums. He removes his fingers and leans down, spits on Richard’s hole, massages through the wet with fingers and tongue. He shuffles forward, cock against Richard’s ass. “Wanna be inside you so bad, Rich. Tell me.”

“Please,” Richard bites out, “Just fucking take it, Taron, I--” Taron pushes in, and they both moan, Richard going slack underneath Taron, unable to help the whines coming out of his mouth with every thrust. Taron sets a quick pace, jabbing at Richard’s prostate pump after pump. “Oh my god, oh my god,” Richard says.

It’s an effortless glide now, Taron in and out of him, hole opened up and fucked out from Taron’s fingers. “My good boy,” Taron rumbles. Richard’s cock aches, trapped between his stomach and the bed. He tries to maneuver a hand underneath himself. Taron notices. “Can you get up, on your knees,” Taron says, breathless. Richard does so. Taron holds Richard against him, back to chest, with a hand wrapped around his stomach and a hand at his throat. He thrusts up. “Touch yourself,” Taron demands, and Richard obliges, stripping his cock fast and hard. Taron tightens his grip around Richard’s throat. It’s too much for Richard: the slapping of skin on skin, feeling pried apart and so full he could choke, his hand working his cock, Taron’s firm, comfortable grip on his throat letting in just enough air for him to go dizzy with need. When Richard lets out a series of halting whines, Taron asks “Are you close? Gonna come for me, from being all full and used up?”

“Yeah,” Richard manages to say, and on a particularly rough thrust in, he comes all over his hand, working himself through it, liking the little pangs of sensitivity when his hand brushes over the swollen tip.

“Wow,” Taron breathes. He pulls out, gently shepherds Richard to lie down on his back, and straddles his thighs. He leans down to give Richard a searing kiss. “Can I come on you, on your chest?” Taron asks, close up to Richard’s mouth, licking inside when Richard sighs. “Please,” Richard whispers.

“Gorgeous, Jesus Christ. My boy.” Taron gives Richard another kiss then sits back up. He’s on display for Richard, stroking his dick, eyes shut, body flushed from his face to his broad, defined chest. Richard feels sick with want, with affection. He uses a hand to stroke Taron’s thigh gently, let him know he’s there.

Uncharacteristically, Richard speaks up, more than a few words. “Come for me, T. You’re doing so good.” Taron opens his eyes, tips his head back, and comes, shooting onto Richard’s stomach and chest. “So good,” Richard repeats, thrilled.

Taron collapses on top of Richard, kissing up Richard’s neck until he laughs and heaves him off. They lie face to face. Taron, ever-tactile, runs a hand through Richard’s hair. “Alright?” Taron asks, grinning.

“Arse,” Richard says. He leans into Taron’s touch, chases the warmth of his palm on his scalp. “Better than alright.”

“I like hearing you say it all, Richard, seriously,” Taron says. “Like forcing the words out of you. You get all red and pretty—“

“Shut up.” Richard kisses Taron. “You’re dirty.”

Taron kisses back, sloppy and luxurious. Richard cracks up into the kiss. "You feel better?" Taron asks, smoothing a hand over Richard's cheek, suddenly quite soft and serious. "Less in your head?"

"Yeah, much." Richard rolls onto his back. "Still going to need to see you after the premiere, though."

Taron laughs. Richard wipes his hand on Taron’s leg, and Taron shrieks. Richard rolls off the bed, starts to the bathroom. “Where you going?” Taron calls.

“Gotta clean up, feel disgusting, mate,” Richard says, smiling over his shoulder at Taron splayed out on the bed.

“Without me?”

“You’re welcome to join, T, obviously.”

“Don’t wanna get up.”

“Who’s the clingy one now, love?” Richard laughs. Taron throws an arm over his eyes and cackles. “Needy needy.”

“Sod off,” Taron says. He forces himself up off the bed and follows Richard into the bathroom.


End file.
